


Busy

by prowlish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet is very busy and has no time for Drift's nonsense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goodnyte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnyte/gifts).



> so I found this picture: http://25.media.tumblr.com/9bcafce5e306a311a70f4e51e3667a24/tumblr_mzfo4dhOrO1qip2llo1_500.png from here: http://alfheimr.tumblr.com/post/73394765421/dr-cuddles-9u6
> 
> and goodnyte and I babbled some cute ideas that I just had to write.
> 
> So here we are.

It was the fifth long night in a row, and Ratchet could tell that the distance -- even unintentional -- was wearing on Drift. From the unnecessary times he pinged the medibay for updates on its patients (which were like clockwork until Ratchet had ground off that if there had been any major changes in simply a cycle’s time, Drift would’ve been the  _first  _to know), to the amount of little stops he made dropping off datasticks or tools from Brainstorm’s workshop or even just a slagging cube of energon -- like he didn’t have enough of that on hand! -- it was clear Drift was craving any kind of attention from the CMO. He was like a fragging turbopup slinking around, wanting its master’s attention but not wanting the reprimand of being a bother.

 

For something so monumentally  _annoying_ , it was really fragging  _cute_. Not that Ratchet would ever admit it, even under pains of interrogation from Ultra Magnus himself.

 

Still, with all the bother, Ratchet felt quite entitled to the harrumph with which he greeted the white mech, once he’d realized Drift had slipped back into the medibay. Drift hung back near the entrance for a klik before moving soundlessly across the floor to Ratchet’s desk. Black fingers traced the corner of it, but Drift still didn’t speak. Ratchet huffed. “What is it now?”

 

“Hmm?” Blue optics widened in an expression of utter innocence.

 

Ratchet rolled his own optics. “You’ve been using every single possible excuse you can to ping, prod, or otherwise insert yourself into my day far more than necessary.”

 

“Sorry.” Drift didn’t sound sorry in the least. Ratchet ignored it.

 

“So. What is it this time?” he repeated.

 

Drift gazed at him for a moment, one hand tracing over the hilt of a sword before he shrugged. “Miss you,” he finally mumbled.

 

Ratchet sighed, holding up the datapad he’d been staring at for the last joor. “Busy,” he grunted.

 

“I know,” Drift said, not sounding all that deterred. Then again, he’d  _known_  and he’d still bothered Ratchet the whole orn long, so not a big surprise there. He stepped closer, nudging a pede at the rolling bottom of Ratchet’s chair to scoot him out a bit. Before the medic could demand to know what the slag Drift thought he was doing, the white mech had unclipped all three swords from his frame, laid them aside, and crawled unceremoniously into Ratchet’s lap.

 

Turbopup, had he thought earlier? More like a cybercat! Ratchet didn’t immediately shove him onto the floor -- more because his desk was still near and he didn’t want to be pulling out dents instead of organizing patient files -- and Drift took this as an invitation to shift down, his frame curling up and bending in ways Ratchet’s had no dream of doing, helm tucking neatly beneath the medic’s chin.

 

Fragging Primus. What was it with Drift? “Pain in my fragging aft,” he muttered. Ratchet heard Drift’s smile on the chuff of vents that suppressed a laugh and shook his helm as he rolled back closer to his desk.

 

In no time, the swordsmech slipped into recharge just the way he was, tucked close against Ratchet’s broader, solid frame. There was a comfort to the weight and warmth of Drift in his lap. More facts that Ratchet would take to his grave. But there was no need to wake him; Ratchet still had a few cycles’ worth of work ahead of him this night, so he simply nosed gently at the top of Drift’s helm, dropping a soft kiss against the plating before picking up the next datapad.

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [@prowlish](https://twitter.com/prowlish) on twitter!! :)


End file.
